


Noblesse Oblige

by Ithilne



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: DA:I - Freeform, Eventual Smut, F/M, Inquisition Agents (Dragon Age), Leliana is a badass, M/M, Michel de Chevin - Freeform, Michel de Chevin gets more to do, Non-Canon Relationship, Non-canon character - Freeform, Rare Pairings, Romance, angst and emotional frustration, exploring the non-inquisitor relationships!, non-canonical plot development
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-22 13:38:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4837268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ithilne/pseuds/Ithilne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even peripheral members of the Inquisition can cast long shadows. <br/>Lysander Trevelyan knows this, and watches with interest as the lives and secrets of his various companions become intertwined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've changed the title to something that is more fittingly...Orlesian ;)
> 
> trans. "Nobility Obliges"; if you are interested in the French terminology, mes lapins gras, then the following is an informative piece to view:
> 
> http://learningtogive.org/papers/paper38.html

“It’s a whole lot of nothing out here, Inquisitor! Couldn’t you have just let me tag along on the next trip to the Hinterlands instead? At least there I have solid ground beneath my feet!"

They ate as the embers of their fire ebbed into the shadowy recess of a sculpted dune;  Bull made a stew from Gurn-meat and mushrooms that was surprisingly palatable. Dorian did  _not_  agree and read more than ate that evening. Varric was indifferent towards the food but critical of the sand. So. Much. _Sand._

Bull chuckled into his bowl and clapped Varric heavily on the back, “But then you’d miss out on all those half-buried Dwarven ruins! And we all know how much you _love_ Dwarven ruins."

Varric glared. Lysander suspected that Bull was winking. It didn’t seem to matter how many times he explained to the Qunari that one-eyed winks were essentially just _blinks_ , because Bull would simply argue that winks were eighty per cent about intention. Everyone knows that.

Dorian rolled his eyes and lowered his book. “What about you, Inquisitor? Correct me if I’m wrong but it appears you’ve been enjoying yourself in this Venatori infested cat litter?!"

Lysander grinned reflexively, “My, my. I’d expected you to have a little more poetic appreciation for the place, Dorian. Clearly I misjudged you."

“Not at all. I really am that shallow. Particularly on a diet of unspeakable meat and fungus."

Ah, the Hissing Wastes.

Beautiful. Breathtaking, even, what with it's long, uninterrupted horizon that skimmed the pale curve of a vast and cloudless sky. Once the sun had fled and the broad planes of swelling air had fallen into darkness, all was transformed into a dizzying expanse of stars and wind whispering soft over silver sand. Lysander had never in his life seen such clarity and depth in a night sky - not even when he went with his sisters to the high hills of the North Marches to hunt. He quickly discovered that to gaze overlong at the sky was to lose oneself in a placid contemplation of the obvious insignificance of it all.

Dangerous, that.

There was still so much work to be done; a key to assemble and a tomb to unearth. A plan to foil.

Yet for all its exquisite, hushed beauty, Varric was right: the place was so damn _big!_ And places of such immense scale are very effective indeed at reinforcing one's sense of relative existential smallness. _Not_ a sensation conducive to getting things done.

And then there was the sand. it got everywhere - just, e _verywhere!_ Sand in the eyes and sand in the smalls; sand under the nails and between the toes. It was a welcome respite to set camp and finally have time to just lie back and dream.  

Night deepened. The moon rose, full and creamy upon its bed of brushed starlight. The companions talked and ate until weariness finally prompted each to seek the comfort of their bed-roll. The darkest hours passed uneventfully enough, but in the the early hours of his watch Lysander spotted a distant smudge drawing close to their camp. A figure. The stars had paled in the greying sky by the time he was convinced the stranger was headed directly for them. But whoever they were they did not attempt to hide their intention; on the contrary, they seemed to be moving across the desert openly, and quickly. 

He rose a little stiffly in the cold desert air and loosened the sword slung at his side, nudging Bull with his foot. 

“nghhnnngh?"

“We have company." he mumbled.

Bull’s transition from horizontal to vertical was impressively swift for one so large.  Within seconds he was standing by the Inquisitor’s side, hand poised above the haft of his axe. 

“It’s a mage, Boss. Venatori garb. Wonder what he wants? Shouldn’t take any chances."

Lysander narrowed his eyes against the rippling atmosphere and waited. The stranger was perhaps a minute away now, stalking determinedly beneath the paling moon. After a time he saw that Bull was correct: the outline of the advancing figure was distinctly Tevinter in style. Dorian and Varric had by this time stirred themselves and assembled behind the warriors.  The figure was close enough now, hooded and cloaked; staff in hand, though more as a walking aid than a weapon. Dorian’s palms prickled audibly with electricity. Trevelyan held up a hand.

"Wait. Wetalk first, decimate later," he whispered, then louder,“No closer, Venatori! What is it you want? You’re taking a big risk coming here alone. Where are your colleagues?"

The figure faltered in its progress, now mere meters from the party. 

“Inquisitor Trevelyan. You can stand down your team - I come alone. I beg a little faith. I have not the intentions of my…colleagues."

A woman’s voice, clipped and melodic, revealed an accent akin to Dorian’s. She sounded spent, but carefully held her gloved hand up placatingly; soothingly. Lysander laughed at the sentiment, scorn deadening the sound. 

“Faith, you say? You must be joking." He pointed to the ground, "Staff on the sand, Tevinter…and uncloak yourself. I’ll not exchange words with one I cannot properly see."

She hesitated a moment, but then swiftly and decisively flung down her staff and swept the hood from her brow. With both hands now raised in a gesture of non-aggression she advanced the final meters between them, closing the distance cautiously.

“She’s got balls, I’ll give her that,” Bull murmured.

The stranger drew a slow breath, and spoke again.

“I come with information…and a warning. If you heed these and deem me true, I will offer also a request, Inquisitor. Will you hear me? I stand at your mercy, as you see..."

Lysander relaxed his pose a little, but kept his hand on his pommel. “Talk.” he said

“The Venatori know what you are pursuing. They now wish to pursue you, and lie in wait at the gates of the tombs they have not yet accessed. Here is my token of faith-“ from her sleeve she let drop a silver chain weighted by what looked to be a key fragment. The one they were hunting. 

“This is part of the puzzle. You’re close, now, and I wish to help you."

A pause.

“Who _are_ you?"

“Not a Venatori. I came as an ...agent of the Magesterium,” her eyes flickered to Dorian then, who was scowling ferociously, “Not all within the Magesterium wish to see a band of fools destroy what little leverage and good name Tevinter may yet hold in the South.”

Dorian scoffed at this, and could not contain himself: “Good name?! If you knew anything of the south you’d be aware that there's no such thing where Tevinter is concerned! Maker knows we’ve earned it."

She bit her lip, “If you could see past your fury, Altus, you could see that we might very well be on the same side. I'd not be here if I didn't despise at least some of the things about the imperium that you do. In truth, I want nothing more than to be away from it all. Here, I give you my orders. I will hide nothing. I will tell you everything."

She unclipped her spell book and pulled from its pages a folded slip of parchment. Lysander took it passed it immediately to Dorian whose eyes widened as he scanned the contents.

“Inquisitor, this is the seal of Archon Radonis. She is taking her orders directly from him!” 

“Could this document be forged?"

“No. That’s impossible, or at least incredibly improbable. The Archon’s writs are magically sealed and verified - I can tell a fake merely from charging the seal with magical energy. This woman is an agent - a spy - for the Leader of the Imperium."

Lysander set his jaw. “Fine. Let’s talk details. Sit down and have some water. What’s your name?"

“Manon Viridius, Inquisitor."

“Manon? Not very Tevene."

“My father was Orlesian."

“That’s…unlikely. And your mother?"

“No one of consequence. A traveling merchant. I am _Laetan_."

“A...Laetan?"

Dorian leaned in to explain, ”That’s the class below Altus in the Imperial hierarchy, Inquisitor; Laetan are mages who have been raised up in society due to their magical ability. Usually they’re from  families devoid of magical talent…or a family that has so little as to be unconnected to the higher echelons of Tevinter aristocracy."

Manon shifted a little as Dorian explained her title, seemingly both amused and uncomfortable.

“No one in my family is magically gifted, indeed,“ she said quietly, "I was the first. They moved me when I was ten, to be raised and trained with other promising Laetans. I exceeded expectations. The Archon took note and wished to put my talents to personal use."

She sounded very matter-of-fact about it all.

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “I have to admit that it’s wholly believable, what she says. A Laetan of considerable talent will always be sneered at by the Altus class, but that doesn’t preclude them from rising to the very top - even becoming Archon, someday. It’s happened before. Several times in fact. In terms of magic, at least, one can honestly say that Tevinter is more or less a meritocracy, albeit a bloody awful one."

Bull snorted in the background.

Manon spoke now in measured tones, obviously gauging the slow trust that was growing between herself and the the Inquisition.

“I wanted to see the land my father hailed from; I wanted to see a world other than the one I was born to.  I could not get away until I was assigned. When the Archon briefed a select few of us about the need to curtail the Venatori cult, I jumped at the chance to be sent abroad. Coming south and watching the progress of the Inquisition, though….you have made me realise that I wanted to be a part of something more meaningful…more vital. I have desires other than to back-stab my way to the top of a stagnating magisterial regime. Tevinter is very great and very deep - but also flawed and deadened. Decadent.I can not change the Imperium yet.  Not as I am.  But i _can_ change - or attempt to change - myself. Which leads me to my request,” she clasped her hands vehemently, eyes pleading, "Please, Inquisitor: I have given you every item I can at present to evidence my sincerity. Will you not accept my aid? I will be an asset to you. I will lend you all my talent and knowledge…"

“Oh? And even if you are sincere, what makes you think I want agents of the Imperium dogging our steps after they learn the Archon’s errand-girl has turned colours against him? Don’t you think you’d simply be a liability if you joined us?"

Manon went very still and dropped her gaze. In that moment of quiet, Lysander saw all at once just how vulnerable she was. Desperate, perhaps? She was willing to risk her life by coming to him so openly. She spoke again:

“Your Worship. I think that the Inquisition is closer to an accord with the Imperium than many believe. Your success in gaining influence in Orlais has prompted a certain grudging respect for the Inquisision in Minrathous.  There is a chance that I might be able to sever - no, _detach_ \- myself from the Archon’s service gradually. He will not initially be blind to the opportunity to learn more of the Inquisision at the cost of the presence of one agent. And in turn the Inquisition could benefit from a connection who has the means to report directly to the Archon."

Lysander glanced side-long at Bull. “Sound familiar?"

“Big time.”

“Josephine will never forgive me if I let her go. The question is whether I bring her back to Skyhold in chains or not?"

Varric stirred, “This is crazy. She's playing us all for suckers! I mean, if she’s even _half_ as opaque as half the people you’ve already recruited, we’re in for a whole crock of misery. But hey - crazy would fit right in. Always does. Not sure anyone would want to make friends with a prospect as terrifying as the Archon’s pet infiltrator, though."

Dorian narrowed his eyes and turned them upon the Tevinter, “Are you seriously suggesting that the Archon will just accept that you’re going to join the Inquisition, Laetan?"

“No, he won’t have to accept it. I simply won’t tell him,"

“You mean…lie?"

“Rather, delay the entirety of the truth. I will prompt him to prompt _me_ to seek a convivial relationship with the Inquisition - to help foster bilateral relations. Of course. To feed him information."

Dorian sniggered in disbelief, “How utterly ridiculous. I have to applaud the sheer audacity of your reasoning."

An expression of futility had settled over Lysander’s features whist listening to the exchange; “Maker’s breath, you sound like Josie. And Leliana. Like - some kind of terrifying cross-breed."

“A kind of Tevinter Ben-Hasrath?” Asked Bull.

“No!” She said quickly- “Not like that. I act not for the Magisterium now, but for myself and for the greater good. Whatever I might ostensibly stand for, I want only to truly stand for my own decisions. This time, I must. Will you let me help you, Inquisitor?"

She flushed - out of anger or embarrassment? - and bit her lip. Lysander sighed and pulled a hand over his face.

“Well, whatever I do, I can’t leave you here after all this. You’re coming with us. I’ll talk to my advisors when we get to Skyhold. In the mean-time,” He held out his hand and waited for Manon to deposit the key fragment in his palm before continuing, “You will show us where we can root out the Ventaori. An act of…faith."

“Of course. Shall we start now?"

“Soon. Have some food. You’re of no use to us exhausted. But know this: we do not trust you. Not yet. And we’re watching you."

“I understand, Inquisitor."

“Good. Now, I hope you like fungus stew…"

 Dorian scowled and turned his back.

\---

Manon slept as the sun broke above the horizon, bathing the desert in gold. Lysander chewed on some dried fruit and watched her, wondering what on earth had driven the mage to such desperate lengths. She claimed she was half Orlesian - a fact that would have made life within the imperium very difficult if others knew of her heritage -yet she did not look typically Tevinter or Orlesian to Lysander’s eyes. She was dark haired, tall, but unlike Dorian her skin was rather milky. Long, even brows framed a high-bridged nose and deep, grey eyes. Strong features, yes, but beautiful in their stern symmetry - which  _did_ remind him of Dorian, somewhat.  She slept fitfully. Long hair pulling free from its elaborate braid and long fingers clasping at the sable cloak in which she was draped.

Dorian was angry. He was fidgeting with his staff nearby, periodically casting sour looks Lysander’s way.  “I can’t believe you just swallowed her story whole!” He said at length, his tone abrupt.

“I didn’t. I don’t. I simply have no choice right now. I can’t let her go, regardless of the truth. You know that."

“She probably is a Venatori; just a really sneaky one,” Bull chimed in.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Either way, we need to figure her out, and this is how we do it. She did bring us this,” He let the key swing from its chain, glinting in the early morning light.

“Likely just a trap,” Varric said airily as he re-strung Bianca.

“I know. We’ll be careful."

Manon stirred; the sunlight was shining over her eyelids. She sat up slowly and blinked.

“Good. You’re awake. Break your fast and we’ll be on our way. We have a lot to do before we leave the Wastes."

She nodded and reached for a water-skin. Lysander tossed her a pouch of dried figs.

“What are your skills, Manon?"

“I’m a mage of no mean ability. I can heal well. And I have been trained in the use of Force Magic-"

“Oh? Not Blood Magic?” It was Dorian, He’d sauntered closer to the camp fire and was looking more skeptical than ever.

“No, Master Pavus, Although I have used it before in service of the Archon - as a tool and not fecklessly. I take no interest in pursuing the discipline further. it’s too dark a road to follow."

Dorian barked a laugh, “That’s rich, coming from one who can blend so seamlessly with the Venatori! I’d wager there are few roads you’ve not followed-"

“Enough, Dorian! Let’s just get on with the task at hand,” Lysander returned his gaze to Manon, “No Blood Magic. None, you understand? We don’t use it."

“I had no intention of doing so, Inquisitor. That would be trying a little too hard to alienate you, wouldn’t it?"

Lysander caught the curl of her mouth; the spark in her dark eyes. She was trying to lighten the mood. 

“Anything else you want to tell me before we set off?"

“Nothing. Not yet."

“As long as they don’t affect me, you can keep your secrets. Let us make a start."

\---

A week passed. Manon guided them efficiently from one Venatori camp to the next, dispatching her recent comrades with both skill and ease. She remained true to her word and helped Lysander locate the Tomb of Fairel, even aiding in the felling of a dragon when they accidentally disturbed its slumber. Iron Bull was ecstatic about this, of course.

“Would you look at her! She’s a beauty, Boss! Good on you, Manon - I like that you lead us to a dragon!"

The battle was long and taxing. Manon fought avidly, showing no desire to further her own interests above that of the team. Afterwards, as they lay panting in the sand surrounded by the steaming remains of unidentifiable dragon-parts, she cast healing spells and distributed bandages. Her actions were beginning to knit Lysander's trust further into believing this woman's words. 

“I must confess, Inquisitor: She’s a talented mage. And I’m very glad of a healer just now-“ Dorian sounded reasonably civil about it, too. Manon, who was closing a long rend on his forearm, smirked at her fellow Tevinter.

“My cup _overfloweth_ ,” she intoned.

Dorian smarted, but Trevelyan recognised the nature of the rebuke that followed: it was playful. “I don’t blame you, my dear. my approbation is a rare vintage. Enjoy it while you can."

She rolled her eyes, “Next time I’ll have to use a heavier hand with my sarcasm, evidently."

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Manon. _Do_ try to better yourself. For my sake.”

Manon chuckled, “Oh, for _your_ sake? Well that changes everything, Altus. Now i feel inordinately motivated to be more entertaining. _Quidquid praecipies, esto brevis_ -“*

“Sarcasm again! You definitely need more practice. Come back when you’ve improved."

Varric groaned. “Are you two quite finished? Only, I have this gaping hole in my side that wasn’t there before a dragon tried to eat me…” 

Lysander closed his eyes and breathed deep. Things might work out with this new magister, after all. Time to return to Skyhold.

_This should be interesting._

\--- 

“You did _what_?"

Lysander grimaced, sighed and tried to cover for his perceived shortsightedness, “Recruited a Venatori who isn’t actually a Venatori but an Imperial infiltrator working for the Archon? Yes, you heard me correctly the first time,"

Cullen went rather pale and had to sit down. Leliana continued to stare placidly out of the tower window, the merest frown creasing her brow. Josephine whirled on Lysander with an air of frantic concern:

“Are you quite well, Inquisitor? where is this Venatori now? Perhaps she used some kind of spell or- Maker, is she bring watched?! Where is she?!"

Leliana turned and tried to quell the ambassador’s outpouring of anxiety: “Be calm, Josie. I think the Inquisitor is very much in his right mind. I have asked my people to bring the Tevinter here after we’re done so i can question her myself."

No one spoke for several moments. Lysander broke the silence with a frustrated sigh, “I had to take her with me. I had no way to telling whether what she said was true."

Leliana nodded, “You are right, of course. One must keep uncertainties close to oneself - I would have done the same thing. You say this woman - Manon - helped you gain access to the Tomb?"

“She was useful. And capable."

“I see."

Leliana paced to the railing overlooking the rotunda and said nothing further. Cullen let his fist fall loudly to the table, “I don’t care if she led you to the gates of the Golden City itself, Inquisitor! She cannot be trusted! For all we know she’s divulging all our secrets to the Imperium as we speak-"

“She doesn’t _know_  'all our secrets', Cullen. And how is her situation any different, really, from so many who seek to join the Inquisition? She wants a chance to do something better with her life…"

“Cullen is right, Inquisitor,” Josaphine said seriously,  “As, I think, are you. Ahhh, but these things are never uncomplicated, are they? We must be careful, but we must also recognise the value of what this woman could offer the Inquisition. If she is even fraction as inventive as Dorian, we would be foolish to pass up her offer of aid. The connections she holds with the Imperium, too,  are better than I could ever have dreamed! We must establish, quickly, that we can trust her."

“Then I will send for her immediately and we can conclude this matter,” said Leliana stoically. 

\---

Manon sat in the courtyard, flanked on either side by cowled Inquisition guards who periodically cast frosty glances in her general direction. Could she blame them, really? Her manner of dress alone cast her in the role of an enemy. Indeed, the mumbled curses and rhetorical questions regarding the Inquisitors apparent penchant for ‘Vints’ had been frequent that afternoon. 

She flexed her aching neck, sighed, and waited. Combatants had been testing themselves in the sparring ring all morning, but there were fewer and fewer populating the courtyard now - likely because the midday meal was fast approaching. Manon’s stomach clenched emptily at the thought, but gust of wind rushed against her back just then to distract her momentarily from how hungry she felt: Maker, but the air cut like a knife! Though the cold was worth it, in her opinion. She grinned. What a truly spectacular (and spectacularly cold) place! Vast, ever-shifting skies; gleaming snow-topped crags as far as the eye could see; and Skyhold Castle itself, a stalwart structure that veritably hummed with the song of an ancient power, perched precariously amidst the glowing peaks with compelling grace. She was apprehensive to be here, true, but oddly she also felt far safer now than she had for weeks in the wild. Now there was the promise of relief from the strange, existential moratorium into which she'd thrust herself all those months ago...

As Manon grew bored and began to reflect on the precise quantity and quality of mud that seemed ubiquitous to the South, she observed a new set of sparring partners finally enter the ring. This time is was an elf-girl sporting yellow plaid-weave trousers and an expression that suggested she’d rather be anywhere but here, and a tall, fair-headed man clad in simple leather breeches and a linen shirt. The man carried himself with the kind of easy grace, strength and economy of movement only years of training could engender.

The elf threw her companion a lop-sided grin, “What am I supposed to be doing with THIS stupid thing, then?” she twirled a practice dagger in her palm, "Not my style, Cheverley. Fancy an arrows contest instead? And why doesn't the Inquisitor get the Dwarf to do this stuff, too? Pickin’ on me as usual. "

The man whom she called ‘Cheverley” responded with a small, patient smile...the kind of smile that suggested he’d dealt with such sentiments several times before. Wordlessly, he tossed her a helmet and donned one of his own, “Because, Sera, you require some training to diversify your skill set . Varric is more than proficient with his daggers, hence he does not need mentoring. Come, accept your fate! I promise this will be repetitive and difficult - but also rewarding. You will see!”

Manon knew that accent immediately. _Orlesian._ And with the bearing of one accustomed to court.

‘Cheverley’, though?! Ah!  _Chevalier_. That fit. But why was he here, serving the Inquisition, and not in Orlais? Intriguing.

The elf called Sera pulled an ugly face and thrust the helmet onto her head unceremoniously, “Right, right. Got it. Maker! no one told me the Inquisition would be so friggin’ bossy. No good trying to get around you, is it, mister chevalley-swanky-pants? Need a pie in the arse, all being fair-"

Manon grinned and watched. The Orlesian Chevalier took Sera through a series of defensive strikes and parries. He was finely attuned to her strengths and weaknesses; encouraging and fair, but also strict. A good tutor. Sera responded quickly under his guidance, and seemed to be a fast learner - nimble and adept. As they began a proper bout to test what the student had learned, a bird descended from the sky and landed on one of the guard’s wrists. It carried summons.

Manon stood up and stretched slowly, not wishing to reveal the extent of her nervousness to her ‘entourage’. As she was escorted away she glanced over her shoulder, and with a spontaneous wave called out a parting ' _adieu!'_

\---

Michel froze mid-stroke at the voice carried high on the pull of the afternoon air. 

He and Sera turned in unison to see a group of Skyhold guards surround the woman who had watched them spar for the better part of an hour. There was an expression of amused concentration dancing on her face. Stiffly, and somewhat roughly, the men guided her from the courtyard and out of sight.

Sera was indignant, “Who was _that_? Looked like a friggin’ Venatori!"

Michel watched the lithe, dark form of the woman disappear inside Skyhold, and narrowed his eyes. 

“I do not know, Sera,” he said quietly, face unreadable. “Not yet." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Whatever it is you wish to teach, be brief.


	2. Chapter 2

Leliana was glad of the opportunity to cross-examine Manon alone. She prided herself on her honed talent for objectivity, of course, but couldn’t deny her curiosity for this woman: never before had she met a magister of the Imperium whose loyalties were anything other than absolute. Other than Dorian. But he was a ....special case.

As soon as she saw Manon cross the tower threshold, though, Leliana knew she was dealing with a woman who had learned well how to wear a mask of seamless opacity. Time now to shatter it, and swiftly.

"My Lady," She said, and gestured for the Tevinter to follow her. 

Wordlessly, she lead Manon up to a stretch of seldom-visited ramparts whose crenelations gave way to a dizzying view of the Frostbacks. A cold, scentless wind rose from the white valley and swept around the two women. Manon shivered and drew her sable cloak tightly about her, watching Leliana patiently for cues. Waiting. impressively inscrutable.

“ _Ainsi, nous avons beaucoup à parler, non?_ ”*

Manon’s breath seemed to hitch minutely; she had not expected Leliana to initiate the conversation in such a way. Good.

“ _En effet. Je suis heureux d'avoir cette chance,_ * A smooth response in fluent Orlesian. That was one truth unveiled, then- "I trust the Inquisitor has appraised you of our exchange in the Hissing Wastes?"

Leliana inclined her head, “Of course. Fortunately for you he is of a kind disposition; Not many would have trusted one who was for all intents and purposes an enemy agent in the field."

“I am thankful."

Leliana took a step closer, eyeing the dark-haired Tevinter neutrally. She smiled a smile that did not reach her eyes.

“So. You wish to join the Inquisition. I will admit that your placement in the Imperium is attractive to us. You knew this, naturally, and it was your leverage of this knowledge that gave you the means to broker Lysander’s protection in the Wastes-"

Manon frowned. She had not expected that. “ _Protection_?” She asked faintly.

“Of course. You never would have approached in such fashion, and in such unpredictable circumstances, unless your hand had been forced prematurely. You were desperate. If you were _not_ in immediate danger, then why didn’t you just wait until you could seek the Inquisition through more typical channels? No. You were in trouble and you needed help. So I ask you now: What do you have, Manon? What are you hiding?"

Colour fled Manon’s face. Ah. The direct approach had proved the best course of action after all.

“I-I have no notion-"

“Do NOT lie to me, Tevinter!"

Leliana moved quickly, pressing the other woman to the battlements in a swift action calculated to terrify. Manon gasped.

“I advise you to think very carefully about the next words to pass those pretty lips of yours."

Manon swallowed dryly. Leliana knew that the woman was still worn and exhausted, rendering this the perfect time to press for the information she needed to keep the Inquisition safe. 

“I will tell you. Everything, I promise- ju- just release me, please!"

Leliana gave an inch only, and waited for the truth to spill forth. It did not take long.

Manon spoke rapidly, at every pause her gaze flickering to the steep descent beyond the fractured battlements, “There were no untruths in what I told the Inquisitor. I did not lie. I truly  _am_ in the South to subvert the purposes of the Venatori, by the will of the Archon. There is, however, another matter…another purpose for my presence in the South,” she stumbled a little over her next words, talking quietly, "I had intended to tell all when I finally knew that the Inquisition would aid me - house me - in turn. Wh- when I knew I was safe-"

Leliana’s eyes narrowed. The sentiment revealed a surprising shadow of lingering naivety. Safe, indeed! Manon played a game of high stakes and yet clung to such illusions?!

“What, then?" Leliana asked coldly, "What do you carry out of Tevinter? Information or object? Speak!"

Manon made a gesture that begged for latitude. The spymaster released her and watched silently as the Manon rolled up her sleeve and removed from her arm a slender leather-bound scroll, strapped there by a leather cord, and pressed it into Leliana's hands. 

“This, Spy-Mistress, is a scroll of almost unparalleled value and power. I do not say this lightly: it holds an ancient secret - one that has been lost to Thedas for generations. A secret that could change the shape of the war between mages and templars - as well as the world that will be forged in its aftermath,”

Manon pulled her sleeve back down shakily, her voice colouring with emotion, "Tevinter’s Archon planned with his agents to release this scroll and its knowledge to the rebel Mages! Why? To engender greater instability of power in the South; to... _prime_ the region for an occupation. if the mages learn properly how to use the information contained in this scroll, the consequences could be apalling. With Orlais weak, and a darkspawn dragon on the loose, the climate in the South is ripe for exploitation. The Qunari know this. So does Tevinter."

Leliana’s eyes widened and she unfurled the vellum wrapper, “What knowledge does this scroll contain, exactly?"

“It is a secret that the Seekers of Old were aware of, apparently... but we in Tevinter have unearthed the practical details of this secret in our explorations. The incantations, though complex, actually work-"

"WHAT IS IT?! Stop dancing!"

"It contains the cure to the Rite of Tranquility!"

Leliana blanched.

Manon continued, "-And the method of severing even the non-magical humans from the Fade completely. A travesty. Such a rite promises a fate worse than death for any who endure it!"

Silence fell between them like a stone. Even the wind seemed to lose its vigour in that moment of revelation. After several seconds, Manon spoke again in low tones. 

“Five of us were sent South. Five agents, with five scrolls...destined for five rebel magister groups. You must trust me when I tell you I have yielded this information to the Inquisition because I believe it is the right thing to do! After I watched the actions of your Inquisitor, I knew that it was preferable for this knowledge to be brought here rather than disseminated throughout the Rebel factions that plague your lands. Maker knows what they could do with such knowledge…the fate they would inflict upon those they deemed culpable for their lot in life…” She clenched her hands, “The other four  - they must be stopped. Should this scroll fall into the hands of the broken and the vindictive…” she trailed off, her eyes wide and anxious.

“…The cost of life is potentially devastating,” Leliana finished for her. “i see. I see. Manon. You did well to bring this to us. I had not dreamed that such a thing were possible. We had no notion that this strike was coming."

“Yes. And it is bad timing, is it not? Your hands a full already with the great matter of this Corypheus. But I will help you track the scouts, however I may. I want to be your ally."

Leliana was not convinced…but as yet she had not the luxury to deny the woman what she asked: if what Manon said was true, the cost of ignoring her was simply too high. Leliana realised with regret that she had to gamble.

She sighed and nodded firmly, Trust the Tevinter, and foil the plan. That was the decision. “Come. We must go now to the Inquisitor and summon a council. You will tell us everything you know about this scroll and its contents, and where we may find the other four,” She sighed and rubbed her temples, "Cassandra will be shaken to the core to learn what Tevinter has been plotting."

\---

_Hawke,_

_Regarding the issue I touched upon in my last missive:_ _The meeting was long, fraught and combative. Details (Josephine’s minutes) are overleaf (all 36 page of them - sorry!) - magically encoded as per usual._

_I was shocked to learn about the item Manon was carrying out of Tevinter - and irritated that she had not spoken of it sooner. But I also understand the fragility of her situation. In the long run it was been safer, from her perspective, to wait until she was assured of the Inquisition's good intentions._

_Then Leliana forced her to the truth._

_We have a little time in hand now, but not much: according to Manon, the four other Tevinter agents have communicated to her their difficulties in locating the rebels. Manon still possesses the means to relay information to them, thank the Maker, so none are any the wiser that she’s effectively defected to the Inquisition!_

_I think we have upper hand (for now, at any rate) and if we move swiftly we can locate and acquire the scrolls that are intended to empower the rebel fanatics._

_I will keep you informed - an ally such as yourself comes but rarely in the course of an Inquisition._

_Lysander._

_PS: Varric is fine…despite his friend Bianca throwing a hell of a curve-ball last month. But I’ll leave the details to him. He's a better writer than I am._

\---

Dorian awoke to birdsong, sunlight and the warmth of Lysander’s back against his chest. Sheer bliss! Yesterday had been a disturbing and eventful day: the council of the Inquisition’s inner circle had seldom been so riven by emotion. The bringing to light of Manon’s mission had shaken him. Badly. It seemed now that there were several new, perfectly rational reasons for people to detest Tevinter even more than they already did. If he wasn’t careful, Dorian could easily find himself spiralling into a state of melancholy over the whole thing; the very thought that the Archon had legitimised such a diabolic plot against the South made him seethe with anger.

Lysander moaned and shifted, eyelids fluttering before opening fully to reveal those lovely deep eyes that Dorian so adored. His lover turned over and carded his fingers though Dorian’s morning hair affectionately, his own long black locks falling in silken disarray all over his face and shoulders.

“Good morning, Dorian."

“Good morning, Amatus. Sleep well?"

“Surprisingly so, considering-” Lysander had the look of a man desperately trying to cling to the moment and not get lost in his worries, “I miss you, Dorian. When we’re out in the field it’s nigh on impossible for me to focus fifteen minutes without wanted to tackle you to the ground and do...unseemly things to you! I used to think it would be easier to have you with me, but in many ways it’s so much harder with you there. Tempting me."

Dorian chuckled and pulled Trevelyan tight to his chest, “The feeling is quite mutual, my beauty. I’m astonished that you manage to restrain yourself as expertly as you do,"

Lysander smiled becomingly, “it must be magic,"

Dorian buried his head at the juncture of the Inquisitor’s neck and shoulder, biting tenderly at the smooth flesh. Lysander moaned and arched needily into his lover’s dextrous hand.

“We…have time, right?” He asked breathlessly, "Maker knows I don’t want to rush-"

“We have time,” murmured Dorian, working his way down under the bed covers. Lysander’s breath hitched as Dorian bent to his task with increasing focus.

The morning could wait a little longer for him to join the ranks of the vertical. 

\---

Evening descended upon Skyhold in hues of bronze and gold, and after plumbing the depths and obscurities of an ancient tome regarding pre-Flavian naming rituals, Dorian felt he deserved a drink at the Tavern. Or three. It was Autumn festival, after all.

As he trotted down the Skyhold stairway he was greeted with a view of Cassandra beating the living daylights out of her opponent in the sparring ring. _Nothing new to see here, then._ He was on the point of leaving when he caught sight of his fellow Tevinter standing pensively on the opposite side of the ring. She was watching Cassandra’s grim victory unfold with a look of both horror and awe written on her face. Manon seemed much better after a rest: astonishing the wonders a hot meal and a good night’s sleep in a proper bed can work for one’s general sense of being alive.

The Inquisition, he noted, had also provided her with a new wardrobe. She wore a deep crimson tunic and artfully fastened pair of pantaloons that looked nothing if not stylishly Orlesian. Given the current atmosphere of completely justifiable Tevinter-bashing, Dorian could hardly blame Manon for wanting to distance herself from the imposing figure she cut yesterday when she came striding into Skyhold wearing her fitted (and frankly rather fabulous) magister robes. Her hair, also, she had relieved from its severe styling, so now it fell long and loose about her smooth face. Yes, a much less intimidating prospect. Dorian wanted to give her a chance. He trusted Lysander, and wanted to hope beyond hope that this woman was a _good person_. He circled the perimeter of the ring and sidled up to her.

“Good evening! I see you’ve finally had a chance to do some sleeping."

She smiled, and seemed actually pleased to see him, “I have, and it was much needed. I assume, though, that you and the Inquisitor had much more diverting things to do than sleep last night. How _dare_ you look so well rested."

He shot Manon a glance. So she knew…and was grinning at him cheekily, not seeming to judge him ill for his relationship with the Inquisitor. Dorian was more delighted by this small victory than he could possibly show without appearing crass. He reprimanded himself, though, for desiring the good opinion of another so deeply - for it implied that his own good opinion was not enough to sustain him. Yet both he and Manon knew that none of it really mattered. Not any more. Both had to re-define their notions of what it meant to be successful - for both had turned away from their homeland and were forging ahead into new territory. It was wonderful, really.

Wonderful and terrifying.

“That, my dear, would fall under the category of ‘Things That Have Nothing To Do With Anyone Except The Inquisitor'. But yes, thank you, I had a _very_ refreshing night.” _Maker but it was good to actually speak Tevene with someone again!_  “Are you going to be sparring today? You’re glaring rather intently at that ring."

Manon grimaced, “To do so would be asking for a beating. I must have garnered at least fifty dirty looks on my walk from the rotunda to the stables this morning,"

“Ah. Yes. That’s something one ever quite gets used to, I’m afraid. But you’re lucky. You have me around to complain to. I didn’t have the pleasure of such iike-minded company when I first joined the Inquisition."

“Being the _Lone Tevinter_ , you mean? Yes, I’ve heard the tales.” But her bright smile faded as rapidly as it came, “This whole situation is bizarre, Dorian. I can scarcely believe that I’m even calling you by your given name- you! An Altus! Just imagine the abuse and punishment I’d suffer for such a misstep back home-“

 

“I don’t have to imagine, Manon. I remember all too well the ridiculous hierarchies and codes of the circle. But rest assured, I’m sure that had we met in Minrathous, we’d have soon discovered our mutual distaste for idiocy and thence become friends.”

She chuckled at that, twisting her interlocked fingers together thoughtfully. “This place is really nothing like home, is it?” she said.

“No. Nothing alike, And in truth, that is a very, very good thing - about seventy five per cent of the time. The rest of the time it’s bloody awful: I’m talking about the food, you understand; the wine; the clothes and the general lack of refined or cultured passtimes,"

“Oh? I’m rather enjoying the culture shock. I’ve waited half my life to leave Tevinter. In a sort of masochistic way, even Iron Bull’s Fungus Stew was a joy to experience-"

Dorian interrupted her with a flat look.

“You can’t be serious, so I won’t qualify that remark with a retort. But you _do_ know that we’re talking about a people who endure being hit with broom handles for fun, don’t you? Enjoy that, you’ll enjoy anything I suppose..."

As they chatted several other onlookers had congregated around the now-empty sparring ring. The dusk had deepened. The air was sweet with smell of wine, woodsmoke and hot festival pies baking in open fires. Music began to play in the tavern, and the refrain spilled through the open door into the courtyard. The gathering crowd seemed to be waiting for the next match to entertain them before the night's revels truly got underway. Then, above the general hum of activity, one voice close to hand was raised above the rest:

“Two filthy Vints turn up and suddenly there’s a bad smell. What a surprise! Two stinking Vints, talking in their stinking tongue. Waste of skin, if you ask me. The Inquisitor is off his head letting the likes of _you_ in,”

Dorian knew that voice. It belonged to a man who had caused more than his share of brawls over the past few months. His name was Geoffrey Fylton, some Ferelden Bann's dullard third son, raised in privileged conditions and ostensibly well-educated. But the man was about as crass as they came in the Inquisition; formidable enough in a fight, thanks to his enormous height and breadth, but graceless, mean-spirited and coarse, with an ego as yet unchallenged by his peers.

Geoffrey pushed his way into Manon’s personal space after assessing her form with beady eyes and a sneer on his face. She shrank from the attention and Dorian manoeuvred himself between them. Geoffrey roundly ignored Dorian, and squinted past him to focus his attentions on Manon.

“I don’t like you two standing here. Move, or the little girl pays the toll. If you’re very good,” He shouldered Dorian away with his bulk and pressed luridly close to Manon, “ I’ll show you a better use for that pretty head of yours than talking your Tevene filth-“ Geoffrey grabbed her flank with his meaty hand, whispering harshly into her ear, “Open those lissome legs of yours like the slut I know you are and I’ll see that you enjoy it-"

Dorian had surprised even himself when he punched Geoffrey in the face.

Geoffrey slumped over the fence, dazed, but Dorian knew that his momentary advantage over the hulking great brute was more a function of surprise than strength. This was likely  _not_ a fight Dorian could win without magic. But before he could think his way out of the predicament, Geoffrey had lunged, picked him up and thrown him roughy over the fence and into the mud of the sparring ring.

He landed heavily to the sound of collective gasps, sprawled indelicately in the mud. He groaned. After a few seconds of gathering himself he canted his head to the right only to see a dazed vision of Manon kneeling next to him, eyes worried, whilst Geoffrey scaled the sparring fence clumsily and lumbered towards them, his long, thick shadow flickering menacingly in the lamplight.

“Just- get out of the ring!” wheezed Dorian as he pulled himself upright with a stagger. Though magic was the obvious option to end this quickly, he daren’t cast offensively within Skyhold.  Not even in as desperate a situation as this would he cast, for it would destroy the thread-thin tether of trust that bound mage and soldier to each other as allies in the Inquisition.

“No, Dorian. You’re hurt. He insulted _me_. I will finish him - I want to. Go!"

Dorian spluttered a disbelieving laugh, “You are joking, yes? He’d crush you to pieces!"

She had the good grace to look scared, at least, but met his eyes steadily, “Trust me,” she said, "He's very, _very_ drunk. I can deal with this. I have to."

\---

Manon was no fool. Well, _most_ of the time she was no fool. She knew she could not use her magic, though, and was thus handicapped. But an agent of the Archon was obliged to know more of survival than how to win a fight with magic alone. She could win this without, she told herself, _if she was careful_. In fact, she _had_ to win this fight, because the outcome would define her status in Skyhold in more ways that she might now even realise. It was, of course, just the kind of absolutist self-definition she loathed; the determination of value through methods wholly devoid of subtlety. But her dignity and honour in the eyes of the Inquisition’s men were on the line here, and Maker knew she would fight tooth and claw to defend them!

Manon swallowed and turned to face Geoffrey.  He was massive, full of bluster, and trying hard to spook her as a child tries to spook a flock of pigeons long-accustomed to the bustle of a city-square. Manon saw that the only way she could win against a man of Geoffrey’s size was to frustrate him, move in fast and finish things quickly. It had to be quick.

He was growing impatient, insulting her accent; her heritage; her mother. So he mocked her looks and her family, and spat on her homeland and all that it stood for…yet she stood quite still and unresponsive, her silence disconcerting - forcing him to try harder. To get angry.

“A Vint whore like you should know her fucking place!” He shouted above the din, “Perhaps I’ll show it to you! Perhaps I’ll fix that pretty face of yours so no one else will ever want to fuck you after I'm through teaching you your lesson-"

Dorian was leaning on the railing, eyes dark and worried. He obviously hated what was happening with every fibre of his being - despite knowing that Manon must have a trick or two up her sleeve. His palms itched, she knew, but he would let her try to claim this victory alone.

Because he understood.

\---

Dorian looked on anxiously as a figure shifted unobtrusively to his side. Ah. Michel de Chevin. He glanced at the Chevalier, pleased to discover that the man looked at least a little concerned about the travesty unfolding inside the ring…concerned in a calm, Orlesian sort of way, that is.

“Michel,” he said meaningfully, clearing his throat, "Aren’t you going to - oh, I don't know - _stop this_? Look at the _size_ of that bastard!"

Michel frowned, “I will, if necessary. But tell me, why does this woman not leave the ring? She is a mage, yes? She will likely lose."

Dorian rolled his eyes, “She said she wanted to finish him off herself: that he insulted her honour."

The ghost of a smile passed over Michel’s face, “I would not take the right to such a fight from any man, Master Pavus. Or any woman."

A loud murmur ran through the crowd as the promise of a fight mounted, but they were cautious; they had reigned in their enthusiasm for this confrontation when they heard the vile insults that rolled off Geoffrey’s tongue, to say nothing of the unmatched nature of the combatants. Two mages against one warrior was all very well (especially if it meant they got to see a Ferelden fighter tear up some prideful Tevinter magic-users), but this? This arrangement made several onlookers shuffle their feet and mumble uncomfortably about codes and morals, and rights and wrongs. 

Dorian gave up trying to talk any sense into the Orlesian Chevalier, begrudgingly contented with the knowledge that he himself would step in if Manon got into dire straights. He glanced at the pair. Geoffrey was plainly revelling in the discrepancy between their heights, and his stance exuded over-confidence. Manon was smiling...and then Dorian smiled too, suddenly understanding what Manon saw: that the warrior’s height and overwhelming arrogance were vulnerable to the clever strike.

Suddenly, Manon shifted her stance into something that reminded Dorian of an angry cat, and Geoffrey lunged at her. She side-stepped his strike and rolled, catching only a glancing blow of his thrust to her back.

The crowd’s energy surged.

\---

Manon tested Geoffrey’s range with a tightly executed sequence of feints; the man punched and grasped at her, but she skittered away again and again without sustaining any damage.  Geoffrey’s face had gone an even more unappealing shade of red than it was normally - the alcohol was clearly taking its toll.  He grew impatient and charged, roaring incoherently. She jumped, stepped and pivoted before kicking out with the ball of her foot to knock him hard in the kidney. He growled, twisting madly, punching at her as he did so. The blow landed soundly on her collarbone. Searing pain raced through her torso. Manon faltered, stumbled, and then another crushing blow caught her on the cheekbone. Heat bloomed across her face. Witless, she moved, somehow managing to dart out of his reach.

Manon stood some way off now, a look of fast calculation on her swelling face as Geoffrey circled her, his eyes glinting savagely.  Her breaths came painfully, but Manon forced herself to ignore the discomfort. She could not let him grab her; if he got a good hold on her, she was finished. She had to conclude this as quickly as possible. For her own sake.

So she moved, fast: spring-boarding off Geoffrey’s thigh to twist and and vault over his shoulders, wrapping her legs about his massive neck.

Cheers, gasps and hooting erupted from the crowd:  _“Well, you said you wanted to get ‘tween her thighs, Geoff..looks like you got your wish! HAH!”_   jeered one voice happily.

\---

Geoffrey flailed about angrily with the girl clinging to him like a stubborn limpet.  Michel stood silent, his arms crossed, watching the spectacle intently. Dorian thought he caught the Chevalier smile and mutter _“Lion leaps the mountain”_  - or something to that effect - under his breath, but he was too wrapped up in the action to ask about it.

Manon clung on desperately, squeezing his neck between her thighs, her arms wrapped about his head. She endured the way he beat, scratched and grasped at her legs with his savage hands. He even tried to bite her at one point, but she just held on and squeezed; Dorian saw sweat run freely from her face as she shifted her arms and began pressing her thumbs into his eyes until he yelled in agony. When she finally had him on his knees - wild-eyed and gasping - she leaped off him, spun about and delivered a deft kick to the side of his head. The man keeled over, grasping his bloodied temples. Manon darted quickly away.

Dorian watched delightedly as Geoffrey’s dullard rage got the better of him yet again; he lunged wildly and grasped at Manon’s legs, presumably hoping to pull her to the ground to master her, but she anticipated his move and deftly she stepped away, turning to slice a foot downwards into his windpipe, before whipping around in the other direction to deliver a heavy blow to his crotch. He yelled in agony and curled about himself, clutching his hands to his manhood.

Manon's eyes narrowed in disgust, “ _Fasta Vass!_ ” she spat sourly, the first words uttered since their melee had began: “Come near me again, _pig_ , and I will castrate you.” She turned and walked away, “We’re done here.” She muttered.

The crowd cheered. Money changed hands. Manon sought Dorian in the sea of faces, and found him. She drew the back of her hand over her brow and shakily made her way to the perimeter. Dorian pushed forwards and pulled her into his arms-

“You idiotic woman! Look at that- you’ve ruined your outfit!”

Michel stepped forward, an unreadable expression on his face, and bowed - every inch the deferential courtier. “I see now that Tevinter knows well how to train its own. Are you hurt, my lady? May I be of assistance?"

Manon smiled weakly as she leaned on Dorian, " _Je suis tellement désolé, Messere. Mais je vous assure qu'il était en légitime défense!_ ”*

Michel’s eyes widened a fraction at the unexpected flow of Orlesian sent his way.

“ _Madame,  Je suis tout simplement heureux que vous n'êtes pas blessé. Permettez-moi de vous accompagner chez le guérisseur?_ ”* 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations in order:  
> *So, we have much to talk about, don’t we?
> 
> *Indeed. I am lucky to have this chance.
> 
> *I'm so sorry, Messere. but I assure you that it was in self-defense!
> 
> *My lady, I am simply delighted that you are unhurt. Permit me to escort you to a healer?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter update this time, but will add more soon!

 

It had been a compelling sight to behold: A young woman (easily half her opponent’s size) fighting recklessly for her honour and that of her countryman. And winning. She now limped from the wracking sobs of her antagonist, declaring herself unscathed. Michel’s experience told him otherwise, however, and he simply would not allow her to walk on a damaged foot. He turned to Dorian, nodded sharply, and they moved forward in unison to let her sling her arms about their necks. He brought his arm about her waist, entwining his hand with Dorian’s to relieve the woman of her own weight. 

As the three of them moved off from the excitable masses and towards a lighted doorway, Dorian chattered in a tone of mock-disapproval at his companion’s decision to fight that Ferelden thug. Michel listened quietly. He knew this was the same woman who yesterday had observed so intently as he'd mentored Sera; he confessed to himself that he'd felt her attention keenly (growing up in the midst of the Game had rendered it impossible for Michel to _not_ notice such things), yet had studiously restrained himself from revealing his awareness of her regard.

Old habits.

She’d been dressed differently, yesterday, and had seemed tired, tense and road-weary. Her Northern and somewhat exotic looks (was she even fully Tevinter?) were unmistakable: large, deep grey eyes and a fall of dark hair over white skin… traits that were altogether rare in Ferelden where a ruddy, fair or reddish colouring was the norm. Regardless of her colouring, she was fine-boned and strong-featured - a comely combination - so it was of little wonder that a primitive such as Geoffrey had imposed himself upon her so quickly.

Michel cleared his throat, “Master Pavus, I think perhaps you should fetch Ser Cullen? By my reckoning, Geoffrey should be dishonourably discharged,  but of course that is for the Commander to decide. I will carry the lady to the healer.” he turned his gaze to address the patient in question, “Madame, I fear that your foot is compromised. You should place no weight on it."

Dorian saw the logic of this and left willingly, but not without a wink and a promise of ’sustenance' upon his return. She smiled wanly. Michel murmured an apology and, scooping her up at the knees, lifted her with little effort. Swiftly, then, her bore her over the puddled grounds of Skyhold towards the infirmary. She was light in his arms.

Michel smiled and made conversation as he ought:

“You fought well, Madame. There is much refinement in your form - a rare thing for a magister to posses."

She winced and shook her head minutely, “You are kind, Ser, though I have no doubt a trained warrior would watch my performance and see only my litany of mistakes! The rigour of your own training has left little room, I think, for a tolerance of error in others’ martial abilities. But I welcome the compliment nonetheless - if only to feel better about myself. I'm in a sorry state-"

Michel laughed outright at her assessment. She wasn’t _entirely_ wrong- ”Madame, you are incisive. But you wrong me, truly, if you deem me to be so ungenerous in dispensing my good opinion! Though what you say may be  _partially_ true, I must repeat that it is rare indeed to see a mage fight without magic: I commend your valour. And your skill."

So  _formal!_   Perhaps he really did need to act on the brief advice that Varric had offered him last week in the tavern: _"can't you - I dunno -_ dilute _this courtly precision of yours,_   _K_ _nightly?_ (Michel had been quietly delighted by this discovery of his nickname) _This isn’t the Winter Palace..,you can let your hair down from time to time and not end up with a silverite dagger in your back!”_

Michel made the conscious decision to loosen the reigns on his ingrained formality. Manon was frowning thoughtfully, though: “I fear have much to learn..." she muttered.

He countered lightheartedly, “You weren’t nearly as terrible as all that. After all, you did win...and seemed to gauge the outcome carefully before striking. And outcomes do matter, Madame! Yet I cannot help but wonder-” he said speculatively, curling his mouth into a teasing expression when he saw her raise an eyebrow at his comments, “-whether you often find yourself in such dire straights? I hear from the gossiping masses that a Tevinter woman but recently presented herself to the Inquisition in the Hissing Wastes - alone and at quite some personal risk. Perhaps gambling is a...hobby of some kind?"

She grinned and shook her head, “No, thank the Maker! I guarantee that I'm really rather dull. Such drama cannot be viewed as anything other than... a novelty, necessitated by the very real urge to not die!" Michel chuckled at this. Manon pretended to ignore him despite his inescapable proximity.

"I fought for my dignity, Ser - well and good. But look! here we are, minutes after, and I’m being carried to the healer like a child with a scraped knee!" She gave an amused shrug, "No, we must not take ourselves too seriously in this life. it is too short for such folly!”

She had spoken the last sentence in Orlesian, her voice melodic and her laughter bright. The playful tone of her response and the words she had chosen revealed much to Michel: that she was poised. Capable. Adept at the Game. Very likely a noble; most certainly well educated. Michel’s eyes flickered to hers and he felt a little jolt - a small _frisson_.  _A_ h. Undeniably, yes. Here was something he had not felt in - Maker, a very long time! A faint smile of enjoyment must have crossed his face, then, for she dropped her gaze a hair too quickly under his appraisal.

Her hand shifted at his neck and she glanced up, dark eyes alive with the glint of reflected firelight and...something more?

“And for all this we are yet to be properly introduced," she saidsoftly, "So unlike Court.  _Scandalous_ , is it not?" An edge of play was still evident in her voice.

He rounded a corner and they drew close to their destination. So Michel dared a little push of his own.

“It is expedient, in special cases, to act first and attend to the formalities later. But I trust you will forgive me, Madame; for your own good there are certain liberties I have taken at your expense,"

Her mouth quirked, “Ah. Yet what of the liberties you must take for the benefit of my _favour_ , Ser?"

Oh, very good. His amusement deepened but he said nothing further, choosing instead to let her words hang significantly between them. Such flirtation was...unexpected, given the circumstances, but he was glad of it. He liked that she stoked their little spark of rapport so delicately. So adroitly. This was a dance he knew well, yet the steps were more daring, somehow, in light of this woman's strangeness. The silence between them grew pleasurably heavy.

Once within the infirmary Michel set her down upon a padded bench and waited for the healer to appear. He watched as a glow of blue magic trailed from her fingers and onto her face, soothing the savage blow that Geoffrey had inflicted upon her cheekbone.

“What is your name, Chevalier?” The question came abruptly, her eyes fixed on his as she worked her magic. She was direct. Michel exhaled. She knew, then. A good eye - or a good skill at eliciting information quickly.

“You are right, of course- now is as opportune moment as any the Inquisition is likely to provide,” So he bowed fluidly, proffering his hand with all the courtly elegance and stoicism he could muster, “Michel de Chevin, at your service, Madame.”

A hesitation, then he felt her fingers rest lightly upon his own. “Manon-Lir Viridius,” she chuckled in response, alive to the absurdity of their situation.

He lifted his gaze and raised her knuckles to his smiling lips. Then came the barest of brushes, a flicker of eye-contact; breath whispering soft against fingertips. Michel lingered in the moment a little longer, perhaps, than he ought, before releasing her hand.

“Enchanté” he said softly as he straightened to look again upon the creature to whom he’d so _inappropriately_ introduced himself.

She looked...well, she looked as though she’d just been in a fight. But her disheveled attire and hair did not obscure her allure: pale and dark, hard and soft all at once, the contrasts of her person a pleasing counterpoint to the eye. She exuded a rarefied power that only the most honed of mages possessed, but her hands were as agile as her mind; her body quick. Her lips curved and parted, face colouring prettily, as she took in his steady regard. She blushed so becomingly...

A breath.

"May I ask, Madame, where you learned such outstanding Orlesian? I have seldom had the pleasure of speaking my native tongue since I joined the Inquisition."

She sighed and dropped her glance, worrying the bench with her fingertips, “My father was Orlesian, Ser Michel. He taught me the language when I was a child. And please - call me Manon," Her eyes flickered a moment, almost imperceptibly, "I am no Lady," She added quietly.

_Odd._ Michel inclined his head, “A bold move, given the circumstances. Relations between Orlais and Tevinter have ever been…trying."

She chuckled, “A diplomatic assessment...my father was nothing if not resolute, Ser. What I lack in martial skill I make up for in other ways."

“Qualities you deploy with grace, Madame," He replied, before grinning wickedly and adding "-when you are not busy with your... _hobby_ , of course."

Suddenly the door on the far side of the chamber opened, interrupting the expression of delighted outrage on Manon's face. Fletcher - a skilled if rather officious spirit healer in this later years - strode into the room eyeing the both of them in an accusatory manner. He focused his expression on Manon, then, who was cradling her foot with faintly glowing fingers.

“Ah-ahh! None of that, young lady - you’ll ruin my work. I’m the healer, here. Not you.”

He elbowed Michel out of the way and ran an appraising hand over Manon’s ankle, “More bloody sparring injuries,” he muttered, then glared at her from beneath his brows, "Pleased with yourself are you? Win, did you?"

Manon opened her mouth to reply, but Fletcher cut her off with a dismissive wave, “No, don’t tell me. You’ll only make me angry. You!“ He turned upon Michel now, eyes narrowing “You’re still here because..?”

Fletcher didn’t wait for an answer. "Thought so. Out!"

Michel went, pausing only to sketch a short bow in Manon's direction, "Until later, Lady Manon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! More soon. Feedback and comments are heartily welcomed!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trevelyan tries to multitask. With alcohol. Fails.  
> Gossip ensues regarding Michel. Trevelyan is worried.  
> But Bull gives the Inquisitor the beginning of a sneaky idea.

On his way to the infirmary Dorian passed Ser Michel in the upper courtyard. He looked thoughtful. 

“Better, is she?” called Dorian as he held his cloak tightly against the thickening rain.

Michel nodded, “The healer Fletcher is tending to her foot now. I think she will be walking normally within a day or so. The rest of the injuries were mostly bruises, so easily dealt with, I believe,”  he tilted his head rather becomingly, "The healer seems to dislike distractions more than most-“

Dorian raised an eyebrow at Michel, “Well, healer be damned! I've brought her something to keep her warm. I’m not going to have gotten wet for nothing,” Dorian jiggled a bottle he’d blatantly pilfered from the cellars, “All being well I’ll probably just end up accompanying her back to the Keep - or the tavern. Depends on how she’s feeling, of course, but Geoffrey wasn’t well-loved in Skyhold: she’ll be be enjoying free drinks all night if she so much as shows her face at the Herald’s Rest! Clever girl."

Michel chuckled, “Clever, indeed. Master Pavus, I’ll not keep you from your errand,” his gaze then strayed to Cullen’s Tower (as Dorian thought of it), "And I for one had better hear what the Commander's plans are for that useless Ferelden."

“Ah, yes. I believe the idiot's drying out in the dungeons, actually. I’m sure he’ll be kicked out in due course."

Michel smiled, ”Sounds about right."

On that note, they parted. Dorian was a few steps further down the stairway when he heard Michel’s footfalls pause:

“Oh- and good luck with the healer, Dorian," he called, "Rather you than me! I will see you later, perhaps, if I can convince the Commander to join the festivities."

“Good man! Until later, then."

 _So. The Orlesian Chevalier has an actual personality?!_   Dorian shook his head, _This definitely calls for the good wine, tonight._

\---

“I hear that that Fylton guy has been Kicked out? Why do I always miss the interesting fights?"

Bull was reclining in his usual spot, tankard in hand. A well-earned rest after an outing to the Storm Coast with the Chargers. The atmosphere inside the Herald’s Rest that evening was convivial bordering on overwhelming. Lysander, who had been maddened by a day of solitary confinement in the library, decided to take the rest of his reading to the tavern. He'd missed the fight, but he had no intention of missing the Festival. Missives rendered in Josephine’s tight, flawless script were becoming increasingly difficult to decipher as the night drew in. Lysander shrugged and drained the dregs of his third mead, calling heartily for another.

He squinted at Bull over the top of his pile of paper, “Apparently it was quite the spectacle! She actually _climbed on top_ of him and just hung on until he fell over. Dorian told me all about it."

“Ha!” The Bull slapped his thigh appreciatively, “Wish I could have seen it! Always have to watch out for those sneaky, small ones. Quick as lightening! And she’s not bad to look at, either, eh?"

 

Trevelyan smirked at Bull’s insatiable quest for pleasure - in all its forms.

“I wouldn’t know, Bull. Not really my thing."

“I know, I know. Dorian’s a lucky man, Boss.” Bull seemed to consider this moment, then, "Think she’d go for some Qunari?"

Lysander giggled, signed the paper he was holding with a flourish, paused, and then dabbed ineffectually at the evidence of a beer-ring on the top of the document.

“Hmm. Maybe? Though I’m a little surprised, Bull- thought you had no time for ‘Vints’?"

“Nah. She’s a defector - a goody. Like Dorian. and Krem. Honestly, do I really have to keep reminding you of how my brain is capable of more than black and white opinions, Boss?"

Lysander grinned and set his quill down, “No. I’m sorry. I guess I’m the one having trust issues, “ He lowered his voice, “The scroll? That whole thing? Really made me wonder at how easily I’m played by people, Bull. It’s a bit disconcerting. What with this Winter Palace hoe-down on the horizon..."

Lysander worried his lip. Bull’s expression settled into something resembling commiseration.

“I hear you. Look, try not to worry about it - my special Ben-Hasrath powers tell me that she’s not holding out on you with another mini-scroll of evil. Or whatever. She’s done. But you’re right to be careful…the Game isn’t something you learn to play overnight, you know."

Lysander sighed and rubbed his temples, “I’m not used to it, Bull. Well, not on _this_ level. The Marches have their politicking, yes, but nothing close to the court complexities of Orlais or Tevinter."

“Good people have your back, Inquisitor - people who know how to deal with that shit. Use them. Everything will get easier if you do. Delegation, remember?"

Lysander cringed, “To make matters worse, we now know that one of Manon’s Tevinter associates is trying to get _his_ mini-scroll of evil-whatever to a contact in the Winter Palace…"

“Oh. Great."

Moments later - and much to Lysanders astonishment - Michel de Chevin walked in with the perpetually exhausted Cullen in tow.

Michel spotted Bull and Lysander immediately, inclining his head in a respectful yet friendly acknowledgement. Lysander grinned in response. Michel then turned and, lip quirked in amusement, muttered some quip to the Commander who tried and failed to smother his laughter at what could only have been an _inappropriate_ comment. As the two of them made their way over to the bar a rowdy group of soldiers clashed their drinks together and toasted their commanding officers by regaling them with a snippet from  _Loose Lucy Loves Lemons._  Lysander recognised the song immediately. He had learned a lot of songs like that since becoming Inquisitor; it felt satisfyingly inappropriate to do so. Vivienne didn't approve.

Lysander crossed his legs and twirled his quill thoughtfully, watching the two blond warriors manoeuvre themselves into an alcove already occupied by Varric and Cole. Michel, who had been so very detached from his comrades when he first joined the Inquisition, seemed now to be settling in well. He seemed at his ease and genuinely friendly with the others. Yet not for an instant, Lysander realised, had Michel ceased also to be a Chevalier: to be aware - so very aware - of his surroundings. To live by a certain code.

Bull suddenly shoved the Inquisitor and gestured towards Michel. Lysander stared at Iron Bull blankly. 

“What?” he asked.

“That Chevalier. Michel? He knows the Game. You should take him."

Lysander, who was clearly getting tipsy, glanced over at the blond Chevalier with a smirk, “Take him _where,_ precisely? Not that I don’t like the idea, but Dorian-"

“-to the ball. Inquisitor. You really can’t hold you liquor, can you?"

“Ah. Yeah. No - can’t do that."

Bull paused. “Why not? He’d be useful. More useful than me…” Lysander gave him a flat look. 

Bull threw his hands up, “Ok, ok! You got me: I’m not a fan of getting all dressed up and standing around at a swanky Orlesian Ball. But what I say is still true, Boss.The guy's ideal for the job."

Lysander rolled his eyes and then leaned forwards, whispering “Listen, Bull. I know. I know that - and yes he is very, very pretty-"

“-I didn’t say anyth-" 

Lysander ploughed on, “-but he’ll be flayed alive if they find him anywhere near the Empress. _He was Celene’s Champion_!"

“Yeah, everyone knows that,"

“ _And he’s disgraced_ -!"

“So?"

Lysander let out an exasperated breath and leaned closer still. “The reason for his disgrace - well -  there is more to it than the rumour-mill suggests. MUCH more than his refusal to fight Gaspard."

Bull eyed Lysander carefully, “Hey, are you _gossiping_ , Inquisitor?! Wow. Just...Wow."

“It’s not gossip! It’s Leliana Information. I’m telling you because I trust you."

“I’m flattered,"

“Well, you’re no longer tied to the Qun so I figured we could speak plainly about this,"

“Ok. Soooo... what’s the big secret, then?"

Trevelyan lowered his voice further, “According to Leliana,” he whispered, "Michel de Chevin is elf-blooded _._  Taken in by a noble who forged for him a new identity, Michel secured his admission to l’Ecole de Chevaliers early in life - and excelled. Thats all we know...but I tell you, Bull, his estrangement from Celene takes on a different character now I've learned this of him: I see that this secret must have played some part in his reputedly 'dishonourable conduct' during the duel with Gaspard,"

Lysander shook his head, "Michel is a true fighter. Moreover, he's a _Chevalier_ \- one of the most formidable classes of warrior known to Thedas. And to have been the Champion? He must be one of the very best. Yet for all that he has proven his worth, the man was doomed from the start - because he is elf-blooded. A _mongrel_. A thing so terrible in the eyes of the nobility that he was somehow forced into dishonour and condemned to exile. All that achievement! All that ability and effort, rendered redundant in the eyes of the Powers-that-be - and for what?! Blood. Myth. Nonsense!  _That's_ what having impure bloodlines means: to live in fear. To have lies all but thrust upon you for no reason other than to have been born in the 'wrong' place and to the 'wrong' mother. It's disgusting!"

Bull was entirely unperturbed by the Inquisitor's outpouring. Lysander was breathing heavily.

“Good Solas impression, Boss. Anyway, I think my opinion for the man has gone up,” Bull grunted, "Not easy, to escape your past; to make something of yourself despite the odds; to keep a secret so big. He's strong, that one. Heh, Bas are really weird; as if blood had anything to do with honour, anyway! Just…weird." He shifted in his seat and hummed, "How did Red even find out about this? And why would she bother with it at all unless she has a plan for leveraging the information, somehow?"

Lysander shook his head wearily. "I have a feeling that she may. Lady Nightingale has her methods, right? I tend not to ask, to be honest, but I have a feeling she might have picked up this information in Val Foret last month. She went alone. Unusual, I know, but she's been very occupied with ensuring we have the means to play a strong hand at the Winter Palace next month...we need to settle this political feud between Celene and Gaspard quickly."

Lysander pursed his lips, "Any day now I'm expecting another chat with our Spy-Mistress in which she'll lay out her finely wrought plan of action. But- she _can't_ mean to bring Michel, though? Actually  _bring_  him..?"

Bull frowned, "So you think Red's hope is to use the Chevalier as- what? Some kind of pawn against Celene? Her ex-Champion back from exile to support her enemies or something? Risky. Michel would never play along. If Red thinks he would, she's seriously misjudged him. Unless her plan is to force him to action under duress?" Bull's voice then shifted to a tone of heavy sarcasm, "Oh yeah, and who **wouldn't** want to be the one to tell a honed killing-machine that they know about his shameful origins?!"

Lysander nodded in fatigued agreement, “Yes, I know. But as ridiculous as it sounds, blood matters. Blood; nobility; the 'Maker-given' right to bear arms as a Knight of the Realm. Only Leliana, the other advisors and yourself know about this, Bull. I want to keep that way,"

He sighed and smiled tiredly, "Thanks for listening. I just really needed to talk. I'm frightened. Frightened of what Leliana might suggest we have to do in Val Royeaux. You're right: Michel would be an ideal companion for the event. But I want him to have the opportunity to help on his own terms - not because the Inquisitor decided to hold his blood-history over him as a threat. It's a moot point, anyway: Michel can't return to Celene's Court on pain of death."

Bull paused significantly.

“So what are masks for, then? I mean _really_ for?” he said, feigning ignorance to get his very obvious point across to the somewhat drunk Inquisitor.

Lysander smiled slowly. _I can be sneaky, too,_ his expression seemed to say.

Bull slowly slid the Inquisitor’s drink out of reach.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a boring little FYI section: 
> 
> I just wanted to say SORRY for any typos, mistakes or stooopid-ass errors you may find in my work!  
> I tend to write fanfic at a white heat - uploading 'alpha'/ first drafts almost immediately after chapters are bashed out. Which is an APPALLING method, I know, but otherwise I simply wouldn't have the time to write them. And dare I add that I get a thrill out of playing so fast and loose with things? Yeah, I know....weird ;)
> 
> In practise, all this means that I will periodically go over and adjust bits retrospectively. Sections DO get altered after upload, sometimes, so it's not your brain doing weird things. It's me. Me attempting to beta-read my own nonsense. 
> 
> So, anyway, THANK YOU guys for your enduring patience :)


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